Breaking Point
by Amphitrite II
Summary: ON HIATUS. A miserable Mike and a hopeful Charlie form a correspondence and friendship that changes their lives forever. :::Charlie/Mike slash:::


**Breaking Point  
by Amphitrite  
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_A miserable Mike and a hopeful Charlie form a correspondence and friendship that changes their lives forever._  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Roald Dahl and Warner Bros.  
**Warnings: **Slash.  
**Notes:** The dashes around certain phrases/words represent where a slashthrough mark would begin and end. I'm really sorry if the format is really hard to read or if things are italicized/not italicized when they shouldn't/should be. Damn and its "I'm going to change your story formatting on you, you puny author".  
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When Mike hears that Charlie Bucket won Willy Wonka's contest, he wants to punch the reporter on his computer screen.

When Mr. Teavee reads aloud the latest headline and accompanying it, the article about Wonka's new heir and the mysterious disappearance of the other Golden Ticket winners, Mike wants to tear the newspaper out of his father's hands and rip it to shreds.

When he arrives back home in Denver and his mother screams at the sight of him, eight and three-quarters feet tall and paper thin, he cannot squelch the horrible feeling in his chest.

Most of the reporters have given up on trying to lure him out of his home. He stays holed up in his room most of the time, when he doesn't have to go to that hellhole called school.

His classmates shy away every morning when he arrives on campus and when he makes his way to his next class. The majority of them are too terrified to say a word—Mike is well known for his short temper and involvement in fistfights—but the looks on their faces tell it all. He wants to yell, "Stop looking at me, you freaks!" but he knows that _he_ is the freak, now. Even the outcasts narrow their eyes and wrinkle their noses at him in disgust. Mike hates them all, wishes that they would all die horrible, tortuous, violent deaths, but what he hates more is that they affect him at all. And even worse than the hushed whispers of the gossiping girls, the verbal jabs and taunting by the school jocks, and the clearly disapproving frowns of the teachers who hate the idea of anything foreign or new in their classrooms—

Even worse than what he goes through at school, is what he has to go through at home.

Because it's not just students and teachers—people he's never cared about at all—who have reacted negatively to his transformation (Mike thinks of it as more of a disfiguration). At home, even his own mother shuns him. It doesn't matter that it's been _years_ since Mike last had loving thoughts towards her and it makes no difference that he's called her a nagging bitch in his head thousands of times—it is still this betrayal that hurts the most.

The walls of his room are not soundproof and he cannot pretend that he doesn't hear his parents arguing every night. He knows that it is his fault. The first arguments had been about what to do about Mike's…_condition_, as they so delicately call it now, and then it had escalated from there.

During the first few days of his homecoming, Mrs. Teavee had merely seemed uncomfortable when alone with him in a room at any time. A clearly false smile had been stiffly plastered on her face at the dinner table every evening, although she was never openly hostile. But then there had been that one night when Mike had been in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water and had walked past his parents' bedroom on his way back. The door had been left ajar and a strange wail had sounded from within, accompanied by his father's flustered and desperate voice.

"Mary Anne, you can't keep doing this to him. . . . _Honey, please stop crying_. . . . it's not his fault this happened, and the longer this goes on the more . . . _please, Mary Anne, calm down. I don't know how to deal with you when you're like this_. . . . Look, how do you think Mike feels about—"

"_I just want my son back! Is that so much to ask for?_"

Mike had froze, the glass in his hand falling several feet to the wooden floor and violently shattering into a million pieces. After a few choking sobs, the horrible caterwauling had started up again. His mom didn't cry, he had thought numbly, before another part of him had added, _and neither do you, but why is your vision clouding up?_ Sure enough, Mike had found his eyes suspiciously wet. He had hastily wiped them away with his shirtsleeve, but to his misfortune, he had chose to do so just as his father had decided to investigate the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

Mike had hated the look in his father's eyes: unmistakable pity. The two had stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and then Mr. Teavee had said (rather weakly, Mike thought back derisively), "She didn't really mean what she said, Mike."

He had sneered contemptuously at him and responded with a cold, "How would _you_ know?"

"Son…"

"I'm not stupid, Dad."

And then he had turned and walked back to his room, making sure to slam the door extra hard.

After that night, things had never been the same again in the Teavee household.

Mike had adapted a habit of eating his dinner in his room and he avoided his mother even more than before. A week later, when progress reports had come in the mail and she had found him at the front door, armload of mail in one hand and progress report in the other, she had attempted to apologize.

"How did you do?" she had asked quietly. Mike had neither looked up nor answered. "Straight A's as usual?" He noted out of the corner of his eye that she was trying to smile.

"Duh," was all he said.

And then there had been the uncomfortable silence. Neither moved and neither made a single noise. Mike knew that she was trying to say something to him. Part of him didn't want to hear it and willed him to just walk away, but the other part was curious…and slightly hopeful…about what she had to say.

"I—I don't know exactly how much you heard…the other night…but…"

"Enough," he said shortly, pretending to be engrossed in his grades.

"Oh. Well. Then you must know that I was hysterical and feeling especially emotional after a horrid day at work—my boss had been unreasonably upset with me and I just wasn't feeling like myself—"

Trust her to blame it on her boss and work, Mike thought nastily.

"And what I said—well, it doesn't matter now. What I mean to say is that I'm sorry."

"Whatever," he had muttered. It was too late for apologies in his mind. The damage had been done.

"Mike…" It had been the first time she had addressed him by his name since his return.

"I'm the same person I was before, Mom," and he had left it at that, shoving the mail into her arms and then making his way to his room.

The truckload of chocolate that soon arrives hardly compensates for anything. Mike still hates chocolate. His parents are clueless as to what to do with a lifetime's supply of it, so it has been piled up in the garage for the time being.

Mike doesn't care about the chocolate. What he cares about is that with the chocolate comes, a letter. Two letters, actually, he finds out when he tears the envelope open. There is Wonka's letter—official looking and obviously a carbon copy of the letters sent to the other winners—and then there is the Other Letter.

The Other Letter is handwritten, not word processed, but the writing neat and precise with a tiny hint of a boyish look to it. The "A's" all have a perfect tail and the curl of the "E's" is exact. It is folded properly in thirds, and it reads, "To Mike". Before he reads it, he skips down to the salutation and examines the signature. Charlie Bucket, it reads in childish script. His first reaction is anger and jealousy; the kid won Wonka's stupid contest and came out (or rather, didn't come out) unscathed. Mike suffered and he didn't even _win_. Not that he would've wanted to inherit the stupid factory anyway, but…

He raises an eyebrow as a mental picture of Charlie instantly comes to mind, ratty sweater, constantly awed look, and all. Mike remembers thinking that he looked like a stray puppy off the street, the kind that people would take pity on and bring home. (Mike also remembers thinking that the kid is kind of cute in a naïve, loser-y way, and that if he bought some new clothes and lost that wide-eyed look, Mike might actually find him attractive, but that doesn't matter, because Mike isn't gay and the kid sure isn't.)

_Dear Mike,_

_-How are you?- -Hi- -Hello- -I was just- Hello, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Charlie Bucket. I was one of the winners of the Golden Tickets and I was there with you in the Television Room. I just wanted to write to see how you are doing. I know you left the Factory in a horrible condition_

Mike laughs ironically. How fitting that even some English kid uses the term "condition" for his deformity.

_and I just wanted to apologize on the behalf of Mr. Wonka, -because he refuses to do it himself and says that you got your just desserts-. I wish there had been some other way to -fix- change you back after you got sent through the telly, or at least that the Oompa Loompas had not been so careless in their stretching! I can't imagine what it's like to be that tall or that thin_

Mike glares at the paper and thinks, oh, how nice of the kid to rub it in, but another part of him is still dwelling on the part where the kid makes it sound like he actually cares that Mike is suffering _without pitying him_ (Mike hates pity).

The letter goes on, the kid blathering about how he wishes that they had all been able to win and stayed longer and gotten to know each other.

_I wish we could've gotten the chance talked a bit, because you seemed like you would be an interesting person to get to know. Plus, Augustus wasn't too nice to me, and even though you were a little harsh towards Mr. Wonka, you didn't seem too horrible or frightening, -unlike those girls-. I hope this isn't too blunt, but I really do wish that we could have become friends._

Mike is annoyed by the tiny burst of pleasure he feels when he reads those words. He cannot help but read them over and over again until he can recite them by heart. He may hate his classmates and teachers and adults and family, but he is still human. He is still a young boy who yearns for the comfort and dependability of a friend.

When he enters a room and his mother first looks up at him, wide-eyed and as if he is a bomb ready to explode at any second, then quickly excuses herself, he thinks of the letter. It makes him feel a fraction better. When his father enters his room (uninvited, Mike glares at him for intruding on his privacy), looking resigned and five years older—are those horrid things _bags_ under his eyes?—, and begins to speak softly about how Mom has just been stressed lately and loves him as much as she always has (Mike snorts and Mr. Teavee's eyes narrow warningly, but when has Mike been afraid of his dad?), Mike tries to tune him out by reciting the letter in his head.

After having practically lived on Charlie Bucket's letter for a week, Mike decides to write back. He labors over his reply for what seems like hours, typing up long, thoughtful sentences before backspacing and debating whether to pour his heart out or not.

He manages to convince himself that because the kid said that he is (was?) looking for a friend in him, it'll be okay to be honest. Part of him hopes that the letter will never be received—he is a little embarrassed at being so open—but the other part hopes that the kid will read his letter and cling onto it and not think that Mike is a complete freak.

In the end, he has managed to write an honest letter without pouring his heart out—and it still sounds like him, sharp tone and a few scattered, scorning insults included.

_Charlie,_

_Thanks for your letter. It has helped me get through a lot of this last week without losing my sanity. Lately, I've been on the verge of cracking but it's nice to know that somebody cares (or at least cares enough to send a letter overseas to some dinky little house in Colorado). I'm usually not one for "friends" or whatever, everyone I know is either a complete loser or unbelievably lame, or even worse, both of the above. Maybe it's time to give it a try, what with all the anger and lack of support I'm getting over here._

_I'm not guaranteeing that I'll like you. I probably won't. I don't usually like people. They piss me off. But like I said, at least you care. Not even my own mom cares. But you don't want to hear me whine about that._

_About my "condition", as everybody likes to call it. I'm not exactly enjoying towering three feet above everybody else. Actually, I really hate it. Most guys at school would probably be excited to be able to see down girls' shirts, but I just think it's kind of gross. Like I said, I hate people, and that includes girls. None of my clothes fit anymore and I can't even sit in a car comfortably. Tell your Mr. Wonka that I hate his guts and his chocolate and wish that he would die. I wish I had never gone to that stupid thing in the first place. But then again, I wouldn't be talking to you, so I suppose it's a moot point._

_A reply would be nice._

_Mike Teavee_

His mother gives him a strange look when he asks for a ride to the local post office, but drives him anyway. He is thankful that the distance is short, for neither of them can stand to be in the same room for very long, much less in the even smaller space of a car.

Checking the mail has always been his responsibility, but in the past has been lazy and left it to pile up on many occasions. He soon begins to check it every day, and he hates the tiny nagging feeling of disappointment he gets every time he looks through the stack of bills and advertisements and finds no letter addressed to him.

Soon, he begins to wonder if his letter has reached its destination at all. Maybe it got lost along the way—after all, England is not exactly next-door neighbors with Colorado. He debates printing out another copy and sending it again, but then what if it had been received? It would seem rather silly of him to have sent two identical letters, wouldn't it? And then, as the days go on, he begins to doubt the truth of what is said in the Letter. Maybe nearly the same letter had been sent to the other three children as well, and none of it was really directed at him. Maybe the kid didn't care about him, after all. Mike quickly shoves this oddly horrifying thought away, because it would mean that one, he has been living on a complete lie and two, he spent time writing an honest letter for no reason at all. (And secretly, three, he has been really looking forward to the prospect of having a friend, only to be rejected without a single word.)

But then one day, when Mike is flipping through the mail (despite his pessimism, he refuses to give up on the hope that has sustained him this far), he finds an envelope with his name and address on the front. The name provided accompanying the return address reads "Charlie Bucket".

Mike's heart leaps and he throws the rest of the mail down carelessly, bounding up to his room. He doesn't care that it is pathetic to be this happy over a stupid letter from some chocolate-loving kid in England or that he would never have felt anything like this before visiting that stupid factory—because Charlie has written back and strangely enough, that's all that really matters to him at the moment.

Instead of carelessly tearing open the envelope, he carefully opens it, succeeding in keeping it (mostly) in one piece. He pulls out the two sheets of paper and flops down onto his bed to read.

_Dear Mike,_

_I'm so glad that you replied! I hope everything is okay over there—although what you said doesn't make it sound especially great. If you need someone to talk to, I'll listen. Mum said that's what friends are for. I've never really had any, either, so I'm new to this too. My family was rather poor before I met Mr. Wonka, and the other children at school looked down on me because of it. It'll be nice going through this together then, don't you think? I hope you find me worth your time._

_And of course I care, and are you really sure that there's nobody else who cares about you? I'm sure both your dad and your mum love you. (Do you have any siblings?) If you'd like, I wouldn't mind hearing about why you think your mum doesn't cares. Everyone needs to whine sometimes. I love my family and know that their love is worth much more than money, but that doesn't mean that I never envied the other children for being so prodigal and free to buy frivolous things like train sets and video games and imported dolls and satin hair ribbons while all my father's earnings went to feeding the family. You know, I don't think I've ever admitted that to anyone._

_I wish there was something I could do about your height problem! Being that tall can't be easy. I suppose a lot of the boys here would also love being able to let their eyes roam without being suspected of being a complete pervert and slapped, but I don't think it's right at all. There's nothing wrong with girls, -but I'm not really attracted to them- though. And how on earth are you wearing your clothes? Are you just wearing that same shirt over and over again, or what? It must be a pain to not be able to fit in a car—I almost wish that you hadn't come just so that you wouldn't be suffering so needlessly._

_I told Mr. Wonka (he keeps telling me to call him Willy but it's just too awkward) that you wished death upon him but all he did was suggest that you express your anger in a useful way, like playing basketball, with your height advantage and all. When I added that you still hated chocolate, he screamed and went mad telling me to ship you a boxful of our newest inventions. I reminded him of your lifetime supply of chocolate, but he didn't listen. Speaking of that, what on earth are you doing with all that chocolate, if you don't eat it? I hope that one of your parents likes it, because it would be a shame for all that good candy to be wasted!_

_Oh, and Mike, I hope this letter reaches you quickly; I hope you didn't think that I wouldn't respond. Things have been so chaotic here that Mr. Wonka never told me that I had received a letter from overseas. I'll make sure that the Oompa Loompas tell me directly when I get mail, next time (hopefully, if there is a next time). Oh, I have been enjoying my time at the Factory—sometimes it is grueling work, inventing and testing and finding the solution to problems, but with Mr. Wonka, things are never boring. And best of all, my family has food to eat now and a warm place to live in._

_Looking forward to your reply,  
Charlie_

In a moment of foolishness, Mike grins stupidly at the letter and cradles it to his chest. Then he catches himself and merely smiles at it.

That evening, dinner is a completely foreign affair for the Teavees. There is a strange light in Mike's eyes, and the smallest trace of an upward curve to his lips. When his potatoes need more salt, he asks politely for it to be passed instead of simply reaching over his mother's plate and grabbing it with his now incredibly long arms. Mr. and Mrs. Teavee exchange looks and Mike almost resists the urge to roll his eyes.

_Charlie,_

_I was getting anxious when it seemed like you wouldn't reply, but it looks like you didn't let me down. Thanks for writing. It's nice to know somebody actually wants to be my friend. I'm kind of glad that you're new to this too, because it makes me feel less like a loser._

_When I said in my previous letter that I have been clinging onto your letter as a means of survival/to prevent myself from going freaking insane, I meant it. Basically, my mom hates how I look now and she pretty much said that I wasn't her son anymore. It makes me so angry because I'm no different a person than I was before visiting that stupid factory, I just look retarded. But she refuses to talk or even look at me. Then again, I don't really want to talk to her anyway. It's just that—aren't parents supposed to love you unconditionally or something? Whatever. Anyway, it's been really weird. Mom and Dad are always fighting and yelling at each other. Dad seems really tired nowadays, but I'm not exactly happy with him either. He keeps trying to get me to talk to him and throwing me all these pitying looks. I _hate_ pity. School isn't any more fun; everyone is always steering clear of Mike the Freak Show. I hate hearing those girls whisper when I walk by and I hate trying to avoid all the guys trying to trip me or making fun of me, just trying to rile me up and laugh at it. And the teachers all either completely ignore me and pretend that there's no eight feet tall guy sitting at the back of their classrooms or they pick on me nonstop, always accusing me of not paying attention. Oh, and I'm an only child._

_You seem too good for envy of materialistic things, but I'm kind of glad that you told me that. Now I know that you're _not_ a perfect kid, which is great._

_The only good thing about being eight feet tall is that I can reach high things and stretch far. I think part of the reason that the guys at school haven't seriously tried to beat me up is because I have a height advantage over them. And about my clothes—well, there isn't much else I can do about it, is there? I'm doomed to wear the same thing every day, how fun for me._

_I still hate Wonka. I have no idea how you can spend more than a day around him without going crazy. You must be braver than you look. And I can't play any sports because you have to have 'sportsmanship' and I hate having to work with people. Teamwork sucks. I get more accomplished on my own. Oh yeah, the chocolate? It's piled up in my garage. I don't think anyone's going to eat any of it. I don't really care as long as it's not in my way, but do you want it back or something?_

_Ugh, you just had to mention those Oompa Loompa things. Those things are so creepy it's not even funny. I'll bet they did this to me on purpose, just because I knocked a few out of my way and called Wonka an idiot—which he is. Talk about vengeance. I hope you get rid of that stupid taffy torture machine. Being stretched was the scariest and worst experience of my life._

_And because I'm trying out this whole friend thing… How was your life before the whole ticket thing? I knew you weren't the richest person on the block, but I didn't know that it was so bad that you lacked food and a place to stay. How did you find the ticket anyway, if you were so poor? And whoa, what are the chances that you won? But I'm glad you are better off now, even if your sanity will probably be impaired by spending too much time with that crazy maniac._

_Mike Teavee_

_Dear Mike,_

_You don't need to thank me for writing! We're friends, right?_

Mike secretly glows at those three words as if they had crowned him the King of the Universe. Never in his life has he felt appreciated and liked the way that Charlie makes him feel without batting an eyelash. Never in his life has he felt the way he feels when he thinks of Charlie and his letters. Yes, Charlie, he thinks to himself, we're friends. And I am so glad of it.

_I am horrified at what you said about your parents. How can your mum treat you like that? I tried thinking about it from your parents' perspectives, and maybe they're just worried about you. Maybe your mum just doesn't know what to do with you now that you're eight feet tall. What did she say when you explained it to her?_

Mike snorts at the question. He, explain to her, after all her screaming? No way. His dad probably did, anyway. Probably why all his video games had been taken away and he had been forbidden to watch the television.

_Maybe if you talked to her, you could get some things sorted out. And maybe you should talk to your dad; you never know, it might help to get your frustration out. He seemed like a good person who worried a great deal about you when and after you were sent by the telly. I'm not very fond of pity either, though. I remember running through the streets on errands for Mum and strangers would just look at me with this horrible sad look in their eyes, and sometimes I just wanted to yell at them. I may not have been the wealthiest boy in England, but at least I had a loving family to go home to. Life before meeting Mr. Wonka? It was much less eventful, I have to say. I think you misunderstood, though—we did have a place to stay, and though it lacked in size and grandeur, it functioned well enough. Kind of. Except in winters, it was rather awful. Things are much better now, though. Dad is still working even though Mr. Wonka has offered to pay for everything—I suspect he likes feeling like he's supporting the family. I'm really glad that we have food to put on the dinner (and breakfast and lunch) table every night. Before, we barely had any to go around. And we've upgraded our furniture a bit—Mum and Dad have an actual bed, now, as opposed to just a mattress! Mr. Wonka offered me a room of my own, but I like staying with my family. Everyone is a lot happier now._

_I used to only get one chocolate bar a year, on my birthday. And I lived within sight of the factory, too! It was terrible torture. I found my Golden Ticket in a chocolate bar I bought with some money I found on the ground. At first, I wasn't going to come to the Factory—I wanted to sell the ticket to earn some money for the family; can you believe one lady offered me five hundred? —but then Grandpa George convinced me. I'm so glad that I made the right decision._

_I wish the trip had turned out as great for you as it did for me. I asked Mr. Wonka if there was anything to be done about your…predicament… and he advised you to take some Supervitamin Candy. You'll find some included in the envelope. Apparently it'll help you grow some, dimension wise. Eat three a day. Mr. Wonka says you'll need a triple dose. I'll send more if you want. I pleaded him to help me create something that would fix your height problem. It took some work, but I think he'll help me now._

Mike gapes at the paper, not sure if he is seeing correctly. Charlie wanted to…invent something to fix him? And he wanted to enough to beg Wonka for help? A warm, fluttery feeling courses through him and he smiles, thinking of Charlie hard at work in the Inventing Room.

_And Mike, I still can't believe all that chocolate is going to waste! I've asked Mr. Wonka to send someone over there to pick it up; if he won't sell it, I'll eat it myself. Not all at once, though. I may love chocolate, but I do have certain limits._

_I look forward to your next letter!_

_Sincerely yours,_

_Charlie_

Mike takes the Supervitamin Candy as instructed, trusting Charlie. Within days, he can see—and feel—the transformation, slight as it is. He no longer feels like a giant gangly piece of paper with wires for arms and he doesn't look quite so sickly anymore. His parents notice it, even if they don't say anything to him. His mother cooked some of his favorite dishes last night—Mike doubts it was merely a coincidence. He doesn't treat her any warmer than before, though; he still cannot believe that his appearance matters so much to her.

When the trucks arrive to pick up the chocolate, Mike directs the drivers to the garage and watch as box after box is piled up in tall stacks. After a moment of hesitation, he quickly scribbles up a note and tapes it securely to the top of a box.

_Charlie,_

_The candy is working wonders. Thanks so much. Enjoy the chocolate, you pig. I look forward to hearing from you._

_Mike_

Soon, the two boys are writing like mad; a response is nearly always composed the night of receiving a letter. The letters become Mike's life. He doesn't even bother asking his mother for a ride to mail them anymore—whenever he needs to send something to Charlie, he takes it to school (stashed carefully in his backpack between his math and science books) and walks to the local post office after the last class of the day is dismissed.

His correspondence with Charlie truly does change Mike. It's the little things, like the tiny glimmer of life in his eyes and the thoughtful, almost spacey look he adopts when he is thinking about something Charlie said. It's in the barely-there smile that curves his thin lips slightly upwards when something reminds him of Charlie—cold weather, sweaters, toys (Charlie had a severe lack of toys in his childhood and is mad about them now, especially the train sets), and any type of candy. It's in the way that he sometimes manages to stop himself from screaming at his mother and the way that he tells his father that he just can't stand his mother—and then quietly asks him if he's all right.

Mike knows that Charlie is somehow always on his mind, but it never occurs to him that he is becoming slightly obsessive with his new friend. He marvels at the wonder of having his very own friend—one who is sweet, charming, and actually cares about him. (A small part of Mike is constantly trying to get himself to admit that he thinks Charlie is cute, but that's just a small part and nothing more.)

Despite the fact that they have only met once, the two boys begin acting as if they are old friends after having exchanged two weeks of letters.

But things are never wonderful for Mike for very long.

One day, he comes home from school and finds his room impeccably neat and tidy, which is rather odd. While Mike may not be a horribly messy boy, he is not fond of cleaning. But Mike couldn't care less whether his room is clean or not—what his attention is drawn to is his desk.

The night before, he had been feeling down and had taken out his collection of letters from Charlie and reread them in order. He had fallen asleep with the most recent one resting on his chest.

But today, there are no letters sitting next to his computer, and at this realization, Mike nearly has a heart attack. He runs to the kitchen, hollering, "Mom! Mom!"

Mrs. Teavee turns around and looks at him with raised eyebrows, a spatula in hand.

"When you cleaned my room, did you find any letters lying on my desk?"

She frowns, thinking. "Oh, those papers? Yes, there were quite a few. Mike, you really need to get your act together and start taking responsibility for cleaning your own room. You're thirteen for heaven's sake, and not a child any more. I keep telling you but—"

Mike's eyes widen and he ignores her scolding. "What did you do with them?"

Mrs. Teavee sighs loudly in exasperation and turns back to the stove. "Oh, I shredded them."

'"What?"

Mike does not take to the loss of his beloved letters kindly. He yells and screams and shouts and curses his mother, who does not appreciate being scolded by her son. The argument escalates into a full-fledged clash and both parties end up in tears, Mrs. Teavee after Mike wishes that she would learn something about privacy or just fucking get out of my face, you bitch (he usually never swears around his parents, but he is just so incredibly angry) and Mike later when he is alone in his room and buried under his covers.

He cannot explain why the loss of Charlie's letters feels like a hole has been burned through his heart. It is not as if he doesn't have it all memorized, anyway. He knows that the physical letters themselves are nothing as long as he still remembers the joy of receiving them and his friendship with Charlie, but… It's just that Mike sometimes cannot believe that he really has a friend now, and he needs to see the letters to prove to himself that he is not just dreaming. And now that the letters are gone, Mike feels less confident. It takes him three days longer to respond to Charlie's latest letter than usual.

He overhears his parents expressing their concerns about his sudden return to his previous nastiness, a sharp jolt from what "improvement" they had sensed before, and it does little to make him feel better.

He hears his father say, "Mike's not trying to cause any trouble. He only wishes to get along with you, honey; he may be a growing boy but deep inside, he still seeks our approval," and he wants to kick the wall. The words are too close to the truth for his comfort, and it stings. Mike has spent his life avoiding sentimentality, letting himself care for others, and being dependent on anyone but himself; and after visiting Wonka's factory, he feels like his entire world and everything he had lived by before has been completely upended. His parents are affecting him, what his classmates and teachers think of him is actually bothering him, and he… Charlie. He now has a friend, one whom he feels comfortable discussing his thoughts with. Mike feels so lost sometimes, like he is living someone else's life.

_  
Dear Mike,_

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_

_So, how does it feel being fourteen? Is it any different at all? For me, turning twelve didn't feel very different at first, but what came after obviously changed my life. I still think of my Golden Ticket as a sort of late birthday gift, the Factory and Mr. Wonka all included as part of the package. And you too, Mike. It's been amazing, being able to have my own friend—I mean, my family and Mr. Wonka are wonderful, but sometimes I just need someone my own age to talk to, you know?_

_I've taken a brief break from working on our latest project to write to you, but now Mr. Wonka is bugging me to go back to the Inventing Room with him. I'll write longer letter tonight, okay? I just wanted to make sure that you got my presents in time. I hope you like them._

_I hope you have the happiest birthday ever. You deserve it, Mike._

_Yours,_

_Charlie_

Mike stares at the box in wonder. He hadn't expected to receive a gift from Charlie at all, much less multiple ones, according to the brief letter. He has no idea as to what lies within the cardboard walls. What would a twelve-year-old chocolatier-in-training buy his friend across the Atlantic for his fourteenth birthday?

He digs through the padding and finds a stack of five brand new t-shirts. He frowns in confusion. Had Charlie forgotten that he no longer fit any clothes? They look to be the same size as the ones in his wardrobe. He doesn't believe that Charlie had a memory lapse and accidentally forgot his "problem", but he cannot think of any other explanation. He looks at them at feels disappointed—he wishes that he were able to fit them properly.

He peers into the box once more and finds a carefully wrapped canister, buried within the foam. There is a note attached.

_We've done it! Inside this container is the cure for all your problems. Well, most of them, anyway._

_Take as many red ones as you need to return to your regular height—each piece will shrink you about two inches. If something goes wrong, the blue ones will make you grow two inches. Mr. Wonka and I have worked hard day and night to make this, but please be careful. I really hope that it works._

_I want you to be happy, Mike._

_Happy birthday,_

_Charlie _

Mike stares at the paper in disbelief. They… They had created something that would fix him? He would return to his "normal" height? He would no longer be gawped at by classmates and strangers alike? His mother would love him again?

He wrenches the cap off with a barely restrained enthusiasm and determination. The inside is filled to the brim with little spherical candies, red and blue. He takes a red piece out and examines it.

They seem so…ordinary. Part of him doubts that they are any different from any other (pointless) candy. Another part doubts that they are safe—had they been tested? He hopes that if they had, the victims had been those freaky Oompa Loompa things, or even better, Wonka himself. He debates not risking trying some, but the temptation is too great. If his mother starts speaking to him again, she might let him have his precious video games and television back…

And Charlie seems so confident…

Maybe he would just try one first.

He pops it into his mouth. There is a strange tingling in the pit of his stomach, and then suddenly it is gone. He frowns at the Halo poster directly in front of him. Is he remembering wrong, or had that poster somehow been moved slightly up on his wall?

Then it hits him.

It works.

_

* * *

(September 2005)  
Notes: Originally, I had planned on posting this as a one-shot, but I rather liked this ending. So. Even after all these years, I'm still not all that confident in my writing, but I hope that it's at least decent. I spent half of my summer (during which I should've been working on summer assignments) drilling myself to keep writing this every night (morning, really, it was around 4AM that the words truly came flowing out of my fingers)._

_Now that I'm back to school, there'll be no more of these 4AM writing sessions (unless it's an essay for English or History or something, gah). I do write in school during the duller classes, and I plan to spend a lot of my weekend writing. I want to write as much as I can whilst I still can—my last bout of Writer's Block lasted over two years! Gah._

_So… Thanks for reading, and reviews would make me happier than you can imagine. I look forward to posting the next part. Charlie/Mike shall live on!_

_(October 2006)  
I haven't worked on this story in a while, but I do plan on continuing it. Hope you enjoyed, and keep your eyes out for an update sometime in the future:) Reviews would be greatly appreciated._


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